


Just The Party Guy

by dancingloki



Category: Truth or Die (2012)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, BDSM, Dark, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Torture, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months have passed since Luke turned on his friends, helped Justin kill them and then stood by while his family covered it up. Luke tries not to think about why he stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just The Party Guy

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a braindump than a story, I suppose. I dunno, it wouldn't leave me alone.

Luke doesn’t try to analyse Justin’s actions any more. It’s impossible for him to reconcile the man who’ll stand there swearing over ‘faggots’ and how disgusting they are with the man who holds him down and fucks him, day after day and night after night, who lets him— _makes_ him—wrap his lips around his cock and suck him until he comes.

He won’t touch Luke’s cock, though. It seems a completely arbitrary place to draw the line in the sand, but then, if Justin’s actions made sense, if he applied any sort of logic to his choices, he probably wouldn’t be a serial killer.

Anyway. It’s not like he pretends Luke’s a girl when they’re together. And he could—Luke’s heard that before, from plenty of “straight” guys, that a hole is a hole and a mouth is a mouth; they’re not gay, he’s just convenient, they wouldn’t do him if he wasn’t such a slag. Justin doesn’t do that. He calls him by name, runs his hands over his smooth, flat chest if Luke’s on his back, tells him what a dirty boy he is, taking it like a good little whore. Tells him he’s going to ruin his arsehole tonight, that he’ll have trouble sitting for days, going to make him shit blood for a week.

He doesn’t mind bending Luke over, on a convenient desk or table or chair arm if there’s one next to them when Justin decides he wants him. If there isn’t, he’ll just fold him in half right there, tell him to bend over and brace his palms on the ground. Luke’s gotten very flexible. Justin won’t let him grip his ankles, says he’ll be damned if he’s going to do all the work _and_ keep them balanced as well. Makes him drop his trousers first, of course, let them pool around his feet as he bites his lip and tries not to cry. Justin doesn’t like it when he cries. Luke’s taken to keeping himself loose pretty much all the time—uses his fingers, or anything larger he can find, if he’s feeling daring and he’s sure Justin won’t catch him doing it—Justin always uses lube ‘cause he doesn’t like the burn, but he never preps Luke, and sometimes it hurts, and Justin doesn’t like it when he cries.

He doesn’t mind Luke sucking him off, either. He likes it, actually, ‘cause he doesn’t have to do any work, he can sit there and read or go on the web or just relax while Luke kneels between his legs. If he’s in a mood—any strong mood, really, whether it’s happy, angry, cruel and violent—he’ll get involved. If he’s happy, he’ll tug playfully on Luke’s hair, direct more pressure here or there, even stroke the back of his neck if he’s _really_ pleased. If he’s angry, he’ll yank, hard, if Luke sucks too soft or too hard or if he twists the wrong way; sometimes he’ll slap him, or even dig his nails into the soft flesh of his ear if he _really_ gets it wrong.

If he’s feeling sadistic—if it’s been too long since their last kill—he’ll get this predatory grin on his face. Luke knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t dare try to get away. Justin makes him kneel, unzip his fly, take his cock out and start to suck it. Tells him to go slowly, every time; to take it into his mouth a centimetre at a time, swallow it down gradually. He’ll usually make him sit there motionless for a little while, throat bulging around it, lips pressed up against his groin. Every time, Luke is torn between hating the anticipation, hating having to sit there waiting and willing his eyes not to water, and hoping it’ll last forever so he won’t ever have to feel what he knows is coming next. ‘Next’ always comes. Luke can never predict when, Justin always waits a different length of time.

Justin likes it when Luke’s scared. He likes it when he doesn’t know what’s coming. When he finally lets Luke move—while Luke is sucking him, hard, bobbing his head up and down and trying to get him off as quickly as possible without it being _so_ obvious that Justin punishes him for it—when the waiting is over…Justin hurts him. If Luke is very, _very_ lucky, he’ll just use his hands. Pressure, the scrape and gouge of his nails, sometimes choke him to the very verge of blacking out. If he’s not lucky—if Justin’s got a knife in his pocket, or if there’s something he can use on a table or desk nearby, a letter opener, anything… Justin _hurts_ him. Justin hurts him until he cries, and then punishes him for crying. Men don’t cry, he has to be tough, he _gets_ that, but he can’t help it, it hurts too much.

So Justin will fuck a man, and will let a man suck his dick, but he won’t put a hand on Luke’s and he _certainly_ won’t suck him. Luke would know better than to ask, even without the sense that that particular thing was out of bounds. He doesn’t ask Justin for things, not ever. Justin doesn’t like it when he asks for things. Sometimes he likes it when Luke begs, but only if he’s begging for something Justin wanted to give him anyway.

Anyway. Even among the “straight” men Luke’s been fucked by in the past, a simple reacharound was pretty common, at least among the more considerate. They weren’t very good at it, not as good as you’d think they’d be since it’s not all that different from wanking off yourself, but it was enough for him to come. Maybe that’s the key, then. Maybe it’s less an arbitrary line of how gay Justin’s willing to go, and more that he simply doesn’t care if Luke finishes or not.

He doesn’t, always. Sometimes he can, from Justin’s cock alone, if he was already aroused before they started, or if Justin takes longer than usual to finish, or if—by chance, of course—Justin happens to hit his prostate when he fucks him, just by virtue of the angle he’s at. But more often he doesn’t, especially when he’s been lazy about keeping himself ready and he was too tight and it hurt going in.

Justin doesn’t help him get off. Justin doesn’t seem to care even a bit if he does or not. He keeps his hands firm on Luke’s hips, keeping them positioned right, keeping them at the right height, the right angle, wherever Justin wants them. Or if Luke’s on his back, which is rarer, Justin’ll run his hands over Luke’s stomach and chest, grip his shoulders, his arse, his thighs to spread his legs further apart, the back of his neck to pull his head forward and off the bed. Once— _once_ —Justin pressed their foreheads together, bridges of their noses touching. Luke still thinks about it when he fucks himself, keeping himself loose; he imagines they’re normal, imagines he’s Justin’s lover or his boyfriend instead of his pet and partner in crime, pretends Justin loves him.

Justin never, _never_ , kisses him. Not once. Not anywhere.

They don’t talk about the sex. (Well, Justin doesn’t talk about it. Luke doesn’t raise topics for conversation at all.) It’s another weird dichotomy Luke doesn’t think too hard about. When Justin’s not fucking him, he treats him like…like a friend, like Luke imagines he treated his Army compatriots. Jokes around with him, chats, laughs. Talks to him about things, about picking their next victim, about where they should do it and how they should kill him. Asks him his opinion, even.

(Luke doesn’t have opinions. Justin doesn’t like it when he has opinions of his own, Justin only wants him to confirm or agree and his _whole world_ revolves around what Justin wants, so he does. He’s gotten very good at guessing what Justin already thinks, what he wants Luke to say.)

It’s during the transition when Justin’s madness shows. He _changes_ , in the blink of an eye. He can go from smiling and joking, to pinning Luke against the nearest surface—ripping his trousers open with his arms twisted up behind him to the back of his neck and burying himself inside his arse—in less time than it takes Luke to draw breath. Luke can deal with either state. It’s the _change_ that terrifies him, every time.

It comes without warning, in the middle of a sentence sometimes. And in the in-between, when Justin’s face changes, Luke can see pure, undiluted and _breathtaking_ insanity in his eyes.

The first Justin will scowl at the telly and spend hours ranting about how the fags are ruining the country, and how disgusting they are and how they make him want to vomit. The second Justin fucks his arse until he screams in pain or in pleasure or both, buries his teeth in his side and pants over him like an animal. Luke knows there’s a pretty big contradiction there, but he just tries not to think about it. He smiles when Justin smiles, talks when he thinks he’s allowed to, and takes whatever Justin gives him. Just the way Justin trained him to.

Justin fucks him until Justin’s done, then throws him to one side. If he’s lucky, Justin will just ignore him afterwards, will turn away and curl up in bed to fall asleep, or go back to whatever he was doing. Those times, Justin doesn’t care if he fists himself, afterwards; and if he hears Luke moaning his name as he wanks himself furiously, he doesn’t care about that, either. When he’s unlucky, Justin will switch back to the friendly, joking Justin, the one who hates gays and will call him a faggot and mock at him for being so pathetic, for wanking right there in the open. He doesn’t stop Luke from coming, but Luke _hates_ to disappoint him.

Luke tells himself it’s only fear. It’s only fear that makes him stay. Justin is terrifying, that much is true. He’s brutal and cold and cruel when he kills, he’s strong and fast and smart and _powerful_ , and his family is so rich that he can find anyone, can do anything he wants, Luke could never get away.

He hides himself in the comforting blanket of fear and doesn’t think about it. Some days, he wishes Justin would just kill him and get it over with. Not thinking about things can be _so_ exhausting, and Justin doesn’t like it when he drugs himself numb, so he has to work at not thinking all the time.

He’d known from the beginning that the killing wouldn’t stop. Would never stop. Sure, at first it was just revenge, revenge for Felix’s suicide attempt—if that even was where it started. He’d killed the other four with such ease, such practiced, efficient skill, that it was hard to believe he hadn’t done it before; although that could be down to his military training. But after the other four were dead, he hadn’t stopped. He’d kept Luke at his side, said he was useful, said he was tough, he’d shown real guts. He was part of the family now, he couldn’t back out.

At first he came up with excuses, when he chose their victims. Each person Justin picked to kill had committed some slight against his family’s honor. But the reasons got flimsier and flimsier, until he gave up naming them altogether and stopped pretending it wasn’t just about the kill.

Once the mood came on him when he’d got a man there, taped to a chair—the poor sod had bumped him in a pub and not apologised, and wound up here, being tortured to death by a psychotic serial killer and his drug-addled bitch. And the mood had come on him right there, with a knife in his hand and blood on his fingers, and he’d grabbed Luke and thrown him onto the workbench and fucked him to within an inch of his life, came inside him and dropped him on the floor. And when he turned back to his business, the guy spat on him and said he should have known, only a fucking faggot could be diseased enough in the head to do this to somebody.

Justin had _smiled_ , ice on his lips and in his eyes. The knife was slow, precise and careful as it slid under the man’s skin. Justin peeled his cheek like a grape, blotting away the blood with his sleeve to leave tender, red muscle exposed to open air. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care when Luke crawled out the door, vomiting on the porch and collapsing in the puddle of his own sick. The man screamed for hours. _Hours_. And when the screaming stopped, Justin had come out with a smile on his face, flashing those perfect white teeth, clapped him on the back and told him he’d done well, really well, Luke, I’m proud of you.

Luke’s almost stopped fearing Justin finding out the truth, about who really sent Felix that bloody postcard. They’re so far past revenge he’s not even sure it would matter. When he has nights that he’s too tired to not think about it, too tired to hold off the sick feeling in his gut, he reminds himself that he’s got an out. If he _really_ wanted out, if he _really_ wanted all this to stop, he could tell Justin the truth himself and Justin would probably kill him.

On those nights, he’s forced to admit to himself that he doesn’t want it to end. He pretends that he stays because he’s afraid of Justin, and Justin _would_ kill him if he tried to leave, that much is true. But that’s not why he stays.

The sex is amazing. Getting fucked by a wild _thing_ , a force of nature, is an incredible rush. Justin’s strong and he’s muscular and he’s gorgeous and he’s got a _massive_ cock, and it’s the best, even when he doesn’t finish it’s still the best sex Luke’s ever had, but that’s not why he stays either.

He stays because he’s an addict. Justin hurts him and controls him, sometimes ties him up to fuck him, whips him, beats him, orders him around, and he’s addicted. He’s addicted to the sheer force of Justin’s personality, the dominant, animalistic Mastery he didn’t even know he wanted. He’s addicted to the colour of Justin’s bare skin, streaked with blood and dirt when he takes his shirt off right after a kill and Luke doesn’t duck his head fast enough when Justin glances over and Justin catches him, and strips him naked and fucks him raw to punish him for looking. He’s addicted to the way he begs Justin to stop, when he’s inside him, fucking into him, addicted to the taste of the words in his mouth when he begs “please, please don’t do this, please stop, _please_ let me go,” and all the while he’s wordlessly begging Justin in his mind to _never_ stop, to keep him always, to never, _ever_ take his claws out of him. He’s addicted to the burn in his muscles when he tries (without really trying, and always without succeeding) to fight Justin off, on the nights when Justin wants to take what’s his and take it by force. He’s addicted to friendly touches, to Justin clapping a hand on his shoulder or his back, handing him a beer with a smile. He’s addicted to the way Justin’s eyes shine after a kill, so alive, so bright.

He thinks that might be love, but he isn’t sure. That’s another one of the things he doesn’t think about.

Whatever. He’s a junkie, and Justin is both drug and dealer, and anyway this isn’t going to end until one or both of them dies and dies bloody, so in the meantime he pretends it’s just the fear that makes him stay.


End file.
